


Heat

by Jenwryn



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot What Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-21
Updated: 2009-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Heat: the transfer of energy from one object to another, due solely to their difference in temperatures." — D. Crystal (ed), <i>Penguin Encyclopedia.</i></p><p>Can be seen as a tag to Ep. 22.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Written in second-person tense, from Ishida's PoV.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Sweat beaded above upper lips, heat pressing too intently; the push of weather down upon their bodies as if the world were already slipped into the first wave of a centuries-early ultimate endgame. It's as though the universe has collapse itself into this one point in space and time – has contracted itself into _this _and nothing else – and you hadn't even been certain if this would be possible, here, seeing as you're only souls – are you even _alive_ right now, in a literal sense? – though you've never felt more alive in your life, or your death, or whatever this is.

You moan through your teeth, and Ichigo's whole body jerks, as though the sound were strings and he were the puppet.

This is limbo, this is unmade, this is the cusp of eternity. You can't help but think in hyperbole. This isn't the appropriate time to for something like this, and yet the timing could not have been better. Ichigo's body is shadowed with bruises from his ridiculous scuffle with the man from the Shiba clan – Ichigo's body isn't even a real body but – _oh god on heaven and earth _it feels real enough, as the orange-haired shinigami leans in closer, and kisses you harder. You let out another moan, and loathe yourself for it, because you're a Quincy, because this wasn't something you wanted from _him_ (though it was all that you wanted), but you can't help it, and finally you let your thoughts go; let your mind go. You contract yourself the same way that the universe already has done, until there's nothing but noise and skin and sweat, nothing but yourself and Ichigo, nothing but yourself and what Ichigo's doing to you, nothing but yourself and what you're doing to Ichigo. The point of return has long been passed, and the two of you are nothing but hands and flesh and muscle, now, nothing but heat rippling beneath fingers as you grip at the shinigami's back, your breath boiling against the side of his neck, as you further consolidate life into a series of heartbeats. Heartbeats, and aching desire for this person here before you, and the heartbeats pound, and the desire moves thick like too-cold honey, except that the analogy is bad, because you're nothing but hot and hot and _hot_.

Chest to chest you push against each other, pressure like a fight, and perhaps it is one, though it also isn't; your legs spread further, knees grazing against the floorboards on either side of Ichigo's hips, and your dick is hard against the orange hairs that trail down his lower belly. You shift, you move, you revel in the noises you can make the shinigami produce, _victory comes in so many shades and defeat tastes delicious_, you feel his tongue against your chest and moan again, yourself. Part of you isn't sure that Ichigo even knows exactly what he's doing, he's probably running on pure instinct along, but isn't that how it always works with him? and, either way,_ you_ know, at least more than he does; you've already had your fingers where you have them now, stretching, shifting, in the privacy of your own room and, if your face burns red, it's more because your blood has gone into overdrive than because you're embarrassed. Your body knows what it wants, you know what you want, and what you want is more, more, more of him – you shift in closer, and up, and _down, _(the pain bites), and _ohgod ohgod why's it him who does this to me whygod oh--nngh._ Ichigo is mewling like someone close to pain, or lost in pleasure, and what's the difference anyway, and he's so hard, so hard and so hot inside and _godtoomuchyes__pleaseyes_, and the universe contracts even smaller as you find the right angle, find your rhythm, bury your nails into a broad shoulder and move, move, god, up and in and down and fuck, fuck yourself upon him, be fucked, get fucked, coarse words in a delicate mouth as you lose your speech completely.

The world falls apart and puts itself together again and turns white, behind tightly closed-eyelids, as backs arch, and thighs clench, and you come and he comes, and you collapse apart into two separate, sweaty bodies. The floorboards are hard on your backbone, and your ribs are playing catch-up with your lungs. Your belly's sticky, and he's stroking your back – who knew he could be so gentle? – who knew that you wanted it gentle, from _him? _– and you breathe, and you sigh, and you move your head, to rest it against the still-smooth skin of his chest. He lets you, he doesn't speak, perhaps he's wiser than you thought. You brush damp, black hair from your eyes with an index finger, and, after you've caught your breath, and re-found your words, you promise him that, together, you're all going to find a way to save Rukia, because isn't that what has been about all along?

He stays silent, and then he nods, and you smell the air so full of sex, and resolve, and sex, and wonder if you can truly keep it that simple, yourself.

Wonder if things were ever honestly that simple in the first place.

You don't despise him anymore. You can't love him.

You allow yourself the liberty, solely, of liking to dislike him.

But, as his hand strokes at your back, and you fumble for your glasses, you worry that even that, even that last thread of contention, might have been mislaid somewhere amongst the heat, and how could you have been so careless.


End file.
